Yogurt and Bloggery

Some blogs will show you handsomely executed works of homemaking art. Recipes and sewing projects and sparkling clean children obeying their parents.

Do I sound disgruntled yet? I was talking bloggery with a friend last night and she said she skips over those blogs. I skip over them, too, unless I'm feeling unusually ambitious. It's depressing to compare yourself to another woman and realize that she's just better at everything.

 I joked that no one would never have to worry about that on my blog.

 And I hereby publicly declare, that you will never read my blog and think, "she's good at everything." Just the important things!

 Here are the things I am good at:

• Spelling - but you will probably still typos and missed wrods (ha ha see what I did their)
• Making fun of myself - but I'm kind of an easy target
• Making fun of other people - probably not a good thing
• Driving - Like most drivers, I am above average
• Figuring out why you have a problem with your insurance policy - limited usefulness
• Cooking meat - which I have to take on faith, because I'm a vegetarian

Here are the things I am bad at:

• Cooking rice - unless you like crunchy rice
• Cleaning things  -  I cannot tell you how many times my husband had walked over and started cleaning something. That I had just cleaned. I swear.
• Making small talk - I am the queen of awkward silences. I've come to enjoy them. It's cruel. Maybe I should put that I am good at awkward silences instead of I am bad at small talk? Hmm.
• Being assertive - I do it, but badly. It's either the "actually no I will not put up with this" red-faced whisper-voiced stutter, or the "I've put up with this quietly for a long time and today I am a fire-breathing dragon and you are toast" hysterical victory
• Recognizing people - I have a really hard time recognizing people's faces, unless they are sitting in the exact same place I saw them last time and wearing the same clothes and shoes and drinking out of the same Dunkin Donuts cup.
• Buying people presents they'll like - see This Post
• Leading children in song - which fortunately, I am only called upon to do every two weeks.

But every now and then, the homemaking bug hits me, so I decided to make yogurt last night, in my crockpot. I had done it before and it usually turned out, plus, I followed the directions, mostly. Michael called me this morning and informed me that it was just lukewarm milk. SIGH. It sure wasn't this post, which begins, You can make Yogurt in your crockpot! You can! You really, really can! I can't! I really, really can't... necessarily, all of the time, except in theory.

Oh and Elliott flushed a sock down the toilet, and tried to stop himself but his hand had a mind of its own and listened instead to the sock which, he stated, desired to be flushed.

That Darn Cat

That Darn Cat, who also goes by Kristof, is a mere ten years in age but seems to have the habits and struggles of a cat much older and far more decrepit.

When we lived at my parents' house, he seemed to have a problem with peeing. He also didn't get along with their cat. Their cat wasn't exactly a peach, either, but their cat is not the point. He doesn't have many teeth, so his food has to be soft and mush. His food STINKS.  The other thing about having no teeth is that the drool just falls out of his mouth, puddling wherever he may happen to be. That is something I can live with. It's being sprayed with cat saliva every time he sneezes or shakes his head that makes me scream. Literally. How do you NOT scream when tuna-infused drool splatters against your cheek.

But in spite of all that, my dad grew to have a little relationship with him. Kristof would sit on his knee and purr, and my dad would pet his head. Dad would him what a great cat he was, even though he drooled every where and smelled. Mom would shake her head.

Now that we are at our new house, the problem is the other type of accident. First it started showing up in Elliott's bathtub. So we kept the bathroom door closed. Then it showed up in the closet under the stairs and the guest room. So we started keeping ALL the doors closed.

But it is a little hard to live in a house and keep all of the doors closed all of the time.

Last night we found a pile in Elliott's room, just as we were putting him to bed. I guess it had actually been there a while, because I asked Elliott about it and his response was, "Yes, it's been there, but I DIDN'T DO IT!"

Michael cleaned it up, muttering about how he was just going to stop feeding the cat because then we wouldn't have this problem. It seems Elliott overheard.

This morning, that darn cat was doing that annoying thing where he asks to be fed by way of smashing his head into my shins and darting between my legs.

"Don't feed him, Mom," Elliott advised, with great concern. "He'll go poop again if you keep feeding him!"

"I have to feed him, sweetie, or he would die, and that would be a terrible thing to do."

Believe it or not, I was sincere when I said that, just as I'm sure Elliott was sincere when he looked at me with wide eyes and exclaimed,   "We can't let him die! Poppop would miss him."

Here, pick a label!

Ah, basketball! The cheerful sound of a ball slam-slam-slamming incessantly on the floor. The energetic screeching of sneakers. The thumpity-thumping of little feet crashing across the room like a herd of angry miniature horses. Children yelling joyfully, parents barking at them to "pay attention."

Nothing here that could possibly overstimulate the child with ... unique sensory processing. Nope, nothing at all.

But what do you do if that child DOES become overstimulated?

It's time for the first ever round of What Kind of Special Needs Mom Are You?, a blog post comprised primarily of questions.

Do you tell people about an "invisible disability?" And when is it appropriate? Do you gather everyone together and boom "YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS" or do you pull someone aside and whisper?

Or do you just put an autism awareness shirt on your kid and figure it'll be obvious that way?
Easy Out Mom

Do you just wait and see whether your son manages to pass as normal?
Anything Could Happen Mom

Do you come armed with educational materials about autism in order to head it off at the pass?
Activist Mom

Do you remain within arm's length at all times in an attempt to control his behavior?

Helicopter Mom

Do you back off in the hopes that he will pay more attention to the coaches than he does to you, the parent?
Wishful Thinking Mom

Do you mention it, apologetically, to the mom who seems frustrated that her kid got paired up with YOURS?
Shame on you, Mom. Shame on you both.

Do you mention it, optimistically, to the mom of the kid you think is also special needs?
Nosey Mom

Do you just nod when someone sympathetically reassures you that he'll "get better at sharing" if you keep coming back?

Weary Mom

Do you wait until your son is crying with his face pressed against the floor because he didn't make a basket and he doesn't get to pick up the purple cone and run it across the gym and get a high five for making a "point"?
Frazzled Mom

Do you wait until the meltdown at the water fountain? Everyone's watching ... it would be a great time for a public announcement.
Monologue Mom

Do you tell them while he's having a meltdown because it's time to leave and he wants to stay in his gym clothes... his shorts... even though it's January and freezing outside?
Mom with the Frozen Kid


I, of course, did not utter the word "autism" or "Asperger's." I hate labels.

Elliott Says (part 4)

Noticing a Trio creation left lying in the living room, I pick it up and observe the handle and long muzzle. I come to an obvious conclusion.

"MUST little boys make everything into guns??" I sigh, exasperated, and turn to my husband and son who are sitting on the couch.

"Mommy, you found my pretend flute!"

Elliott rushes over to rescue his precious instrument.

Toodly kazoo noises follow.

Christmas Reflections, continued

On Santa

Around Thanksgiving, we started hearing talk from our little one about Santa coming.
We .. don't do Santa.
I thought it would be a very simple matter to say "he's pretend. It's fun to pretend, isn't it?"
It was not that easy. The culture of Santa permeates far and near, and it's a hard discussion"Mom," he said, condescendingly, "he's REAL."

We read the book on St. Nicholas. We talked about St. Nicholas. He was a very nice man. But he's dead now. Mommy and Daddy give you all your presents.

Aaaand then we ran into Santa out at the Christmas carnival. Handing out candy canes. Not looking very dead at all.
"What would you like for Christmas, little guy?"
"A pink and purple bus that sparkles."
"Ooookaaayyy--- you know, I've never heard a boy ask for THAT! Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Thanks for the candy cane.

Why don't we do Santa? I have a little guy with an autism spectrum disorder! He gets very tripped up by intangible nonsene (such as Santa Claus). It's also my job as a parent to help instill faith in him and give him the ability to make good decisions on his own someday, and to stand up for truth and justice! I have a valid concern that telling a black-and-white thinker that Santa is real and gives you presents, and then ripping that fantasy away from him at some point, be a bad idea if I want him to teach him about real Truth. Pretty serious thoughts, I know. Overanalyzing? Who, me?

But he really wanted someone to tell him Santa was real, even if that person wasn't me.

So he asked the lady stocking shelves in Payless shoes, he asked the dental hygienist, he asked the cashier at Penneys, he asked his grandparents, he asked his aunts and uncles, he asked his teachers, he asked his friends.

He asked me how Santa was going to put presents under the tree, since we didn't have a chimney.
"He's not real," I explained, "but if he was, he wouldn't be able to come in anyway, because the pipe to our pellet stove is too small for him to fit through."
It was a grinchy thing to say, but it didn't phase him.
He suggested Santa could come in through the sliding door in the back.
I didn't answer.

A week later he asked us about getting a Criss Cross Crash for Christmas (big noisy racecar track). We had already purchased it, but we thought it would be fun to keep him guessing.
"I don't know, bud, it looks like all the stores around here are out of it!"
"Oh, that makes sense," he reasoned. "They needed to give all the good toys to Santa Claus because SANTA BRINGS ALL THE TOYS!"

I said nothing, because it's just cruel to snuff out a child's innocent joy.

It's all those magical, warm-fuzzy Christmas movies, isn't it. They tell us that grownups are too old and tired to believe in the marvelous wonderful truth of Santa.

Was it beginning to melt my cold, grinchy exterior? Was my heart going to grow two sizes and practically explode out of my chest?

Christmas came and there were no presents from Santa.

He asked if I was sure all these presents were from us.
"Yes," I said and pointed to where the tags said Mommy or Daddy, or both.
I received a concerned little look in response.

Later, in the car he asked why Santa didn't come. He seemed sad. I relented.

"Elliott, he's not real, but... " and here I sighed big "... but you know what? We didn't write him a letter. Kids are supposed to send their letters to the North pole so Santa knows what to bring. Next year, I guess, we can write to him." Even though he's not real.

Dear Santa,

Don't expect any milk and cookies.

You're a nice man, but you're dead.

Love,

Helen

Reflections on Christmas

On Buying Presents for Michael:
I don't think I have ever surprised him with anything. I'm not a very good gift hider, and not even very good at thinking up gift ideas in the first place, so he usually has to coach me so much that he knows what I'm doing. i.e. "Well, Helen, you could get me video games." "Which one?... how do you spell that? Where should I buy it?"

So this year I got him a watch. Early in November. From the store where he works. He figured that one out pretty quickly. As far as gifts go, it's something we had already been saving for, since he sells watches and it's kind of good for him to have a watch.

Then I got him some pajamas, and I was going to surprise him, until we were having overnight guests and he said "I'm going to pick up some pajamas for myself because I can't just walk around in my underwear" (which is what he usually wears to bed) so I sighed and told him to "open this present, then...if you want it to be special I can pour you a glass of wine first".

But even then I didn't give up hope! I picked him a pair of $3 shorts, which granted, was sort of a joke anyway (he wears this pair of horrible grungy shorts that I can't wait to burn).

I discovered he is hiding other people's presents in the same spot. Do you think he saw them? I hope not.

So I thought as long as I was getting my Christmas bonus I would get him a pair of shoes, too. We were going to wait until next month but he needs them. So I bought him shoes!

They came in the wrong size.

OK, well, wrong sized-shoes would be a surprise all right. But not exactly what I was hoping for.
So, just for the sake of giving him something that he would want and enjoy and not expect - I got him a Dunkin Donuts gift card (justified by knowing that he'll spend his own money at Dunkin Donuts anyway). And then I found my purse in a different spot the next day. He had apparently been rifling through it looking for keys. What if he'd found it?

I was starting to think that if I wanted to surprise him then I would have to hide in the shower on Christmas morning, and jump out and scream when he comes in to pee.



Christmas day came and went and
1) He liked the watch even though he knew about it.
2) He was already wearing the new pajamas when he started opening presents, which made for far better Christmas morning photos than the, um, undies-as-jammies would have.
3) He somehow did not know that the wadded up shorts hidden in the training potty in the laundry room were for him.
4) He liked the shoes and tried them on just to be sure. They were not a fit but... he looks forward to getting the correct size (at no additional cost to us!)
5) Opened the DD gift card and said "Wow! How much is on here?" Visibly excited.


Tomorrow - "Elliott's Christmas" which might also be titled "All about the Who down in Whoville, who taught me that believing in Santa won't make you greedy and faithless"

Babies and Boobies and Basketballs

We'd been talking about Mary's journey to Bethlehem, and how uncomfortable she must have been, and also a little scared.  When we got to this part in our Advent preparation last year, I remember him having a lot of "babies" and "bellies" questions then, too. Oh, and let me preface this by saying I am not pregnant. I'm not being coy and hinting that I might really be. I'm not. If you saw me downing Riesling at Christmas, you know, without a doubt, that I am NOT with child, and not even gosh, giggle, maybe soon. Nope. I was throwing them back So without further ado:

Elliott has clearly been mulling over the whole Christmas-is-about-baby-Jesus-being-born thing, and had this to say about it:

"Mom, I think a baby is going to pop out of your tummy."
"I think you're wrong!"
"But babies come out of ladies' tummies." Hops up next to me, gently jogging in place on the couch.
"Well, all babies come from a lady's belly, but not all ladies' bellies have babies inside of them."
"Oh." He looks confused and slides onto the floor. I try to explain better.
"OK ok, you know how you can tell? Sometimes, if you see a lady who looks like she has a basketball in her tummy, she's actually having a baby."
*stares at me critically. I stare back, willing him not to say I that look like I have a basketball tummy*
"Mom." Looking at me over the top of his glasses. Don't say it, don't say it...
"What."
"What about these basketballs?" *points at my chest and starts jumping in place again*
My first response is to be candid and say that they're much smaller and not even the same shape- but I realized in time that it wasn't really where a mom ought to steer the conversation.
Rather, I said "WHAT? Um, I mean. That's not a baby. Those are boobies and I don't use them unless I have to give a baby nursies. Remember you used to be littler and you used to have nursies? That's what those are for." Yes, that's all anyone uses them for, no more questions, please...
He mulls this over while doing a headstand against the back of the couch, using one hand to grope at his own chest.
"Mom, I have boobs, too!"
"Yes, but you're a boy, so you don't really use them the same way. You'll probably never give a baby nursies."

... did I just say 'probably'?

Yes. I don't always think so well on my feet.